Harpies Springs
by Queen-morganalefay
Summary: This is an interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, a modern version rewritten to be set in the Civil War era. Short story style(though it's nowhere close to short), not prose. Rating for, you guessed it, death.
1. Two Stories

Author's Note: This is actually a modern version of Romeo and Juliet I wrote a long time ago for English, but never finished as I only got done with the first act. There's a lot more after this, but I'm just putting this up to see if anyone's interested.

I set the story in the Civil War era, somewhere near the Mason-Dixon line, and did my best at dialect. Now, I don't want any flames because I put in the accents. I'm from the South myself, and I have nothing against African Americans or white people. But I'm writing it according to the times.

Disclaimer: Will Shakespeare is one of the greatest and well known playwrights of all time. Do you really think I can get away with stealing his work, even if my version isn't in prose and is in a different time era?

* * *

Two sides. Two different stories. Two ways to look at things.

On one side, there are the cold and windy cities of the north, years ahead in industrialization and in pollution, with hard streets and hard workers, equals and superiors sometimes molding into one. To survive, you work together, you fight for right, or you fight for yourself. Whatever you do, you never stop fighting.

From seemingly nowhere in the windy, overgrown and crowded scene comes a visionary from a simpler upbringing. He speaks of justice for all people, but through that violence, the other side, which before was just separate from the harsh and swarming masses of the North, will become an enemy.

On the other side, in a land of lush surroundings and plantations that can go for miles, full of elegant people who socialize often and use their upbringing to the fullest, there comes the second argument. Here work is done by the lower class, and the two classes could not be more clearly distinguished. They detest the, as they see it, useless and tiresome bustle of the Northern city, and relish the simpler places and times, with foreigners as their work force. Tempers have flared further as the Northerners have declared war on them over their tradition that has lasted for ages, saying now such practices should be outlawed.

Neither side is to socialize with the other. Both point fingers and say the other stands in the wrong. Both are quick to judge. War tears at both their lands, and the closer to the line between the two you are, the closer your perception of the damage becomes, and the closer two stories come to becoming one.

* * *

"Damn Yankees." Sam growled to himself as he re-folded the day's newspaper, hitting the front story with a great deal of anger in his voice. In the few towns bordering the Mason-Dixon line, life was growing incredibly horrible for the hot-tempered and mild alike, and the waiting for news, for the few newspapers that came in to Harpies Springs weekly from Philadelphia…and adding to the sting, having to hear it from a Northerner's point of view, was making many of the resident's blood boil. Sam once again slapped at the headline, talking to the usual gatherers at the drug store for a thread of news or rumors to carry home. "Can ya believe it? Atlanta! Burned! Why those insolent little –"

"Language, Sam!" A wife in the crowd warned, glaring as she motioned to some little ones nearby, staring innocently and sucking on hard candies bought from the drug store.

"An' when it happens here, not just in the main cities, ya worry abou' language." He muttered darkly as he unfolded the newspaper again and began scanning the article again.

Another man, dark haired and lanky with quick satirical eyes laughed. "Them Yankees won't bother us, Sam, you ought not worry about that."

"What's more than that, as if they hadn't infested us enough, their comin' into Maryland! Livin' here!" Sam exclaimed again, losing himself in the passion of it all, the indignity. "Coming here to tell us how to live while they kill our men and burn our lands and free the niggers and—"

"Sam!" The woman exclaimed again, trying to calm him before he last himself in his rage.

"Oh, let him fuss, Myrna. He'll tire himself ou' eventually." Greg laughed.

"Well, it's God's truth and you know it! Those slaves are ours by righ', an' they come and free 'em by secret, take 'em 'cross the border and then we can't touch 'em! As if our lives weren't enough! It's no' a matter of justice, Myrna, it's a matter that we got the better lands first an' they know it."

Several of the crowd murmured their agreement, but Greg just raised his dark brows in a questioning manner, raising a crooked index to point a mixed group of African and white companions. "Well, if ya feel so strongly, Sam, go take it ou' on them. I'll back ya up, if ya like."

"Back me up or make a fool o' me?" Sam questioned with a dismissive wave of his hand, and then turned his angry mahogany eyes on the cluster of people moving down the street, talking and laughing. An African young man to the front was making jokes, causing the laughter as he walked backwards to face the moving crowd. Sam picked a smooth rock from the ground, feeling the weight of it for several moments before launching it, hitting the other in the side of the head and causing him to start, turning his dark eyes toward the others near the drug store with surprise that soured to anger.

"What'd I do t' you, Mister?" He called out, indignant manner crossing his strong features.

"Show up in our town, that's what!" Sam called back, his eyes flashing, challenging the group to make a move toward a fight.

"It don' belong t' you, suh, no offense meant!" The other said in retort, and several of his fellows glared daggers at the group rallied around the drug store. Such skirmishes between the groups of Northerners and escaped slaves and the loyal Southerners were becoming more and more common, especially near the Line.

One of the ones in the crowd near the drug store picked up another rock and launched it toward the same young boy. Before any could tell what was happening, the two were fighting, Sam and the boy, Abe, punching and kicking, several others joining into the fray. The women gathered the children away from the street fight as several others came running from their homes, yelling and brandishing rifles in the air. A sheriff emerged from his office, sleepy eyed and half drunk, confusion quickly going to indignant anger as he tried to break things up. Another man, with light brown hair in natural tight curls and a light tan complexion made it to the fray first, breaking up Abe and Sam. His voice hinted at both Yankee and slave dialect.

"Easy, suhs, easy…Mayor'll be on both of us if we act like this." He edged himself between the two groups, flashing a smile to Sam and the other men, trying to calm them. "Jus' take it easy. The heat of the day's jus' gone to all of our tempers, that's all…"

"The heat o' the day or the heat o' indignity?" Called a voice from behind the group. A man with longish blond hair and piercing blue eyes had sauntered up, eyes clearly speaking that he regretted missing the beginning of the fray. He smirked in an unpleasant way, as if he knew that the peacemaker's answer would assure him victory no matter what the response.

"Maybe a lil' of both, Mister Tyler." Answered the light skinned man, face going carefully blank and guarded.

"An' why shouldn' we be indignant?" The man called Tyler said, eyes flitting between the two groups, though clearly speaking to Sam's side. "Slave's escapin' when they shoul' be workin'; Yankees takin' over our land…" He eyes cast unpleasantly over the light skinned man, who went by the name of Ben. "…An' creatures like him runnin' 'round…half white, half slave…"

"I am wha' I am." Ben said in his defense, his tone calm but his eyes flashing in anger.

"O' course…doesn' mean the res' o' of us should have to put up with ya. Gentlemen, Ah think it's time we ran these Yanks off our land. They been here long enough!" Tyler smirk widened as the men behind Sam gave a resolute shout and started the fighting once more, some going hand to hand and some using the rifles, gunshot echoing across town, stirring people from their homes and chores. A man with graying hair and steel eyes emerged from a local tavern, surveying the fight for a few seconds before going off in its direction, obviously intent on joining in. A woman from the pub put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from moving further on.

"Woah, there, Mister Connors, what'd your wife be sayin' if Ah le' you get hurt?"

"Ge' off me, Belle! Ah've got kinsmen in that fight!"

In the opposite street corner, from a run-down hotel came a tall, older African gentlemen with kind eyes but a beaten and weathered face. His wife, short and thickset woman grabbed his arm before he could go off in the direction of the fight.

"You won' be goin' over there an' makin' a fuss, Mike."

"Lawd have mercy, if you don' lemme go, Margie…"

All of the commotion came to an abrupt halt as a loud rifle went off in the dead center of town. Sam was paused in the middle of throttling Abe, Tyler in the middle of trying to force Ben to fight. Heads turned simultaneously to see where the loudest of the gunshots had come from, seeing the Mayor with the sheriff alongside him, both of them wearing a grim face, though the sheriff's expression may have just come from his bleeding nose.

The Mayor surveyed those responsible for the fight for several long moments before speaking, his eyes roving over everyone from his perch on a tall black stallion. "Now, lissen hear, all o' ya! Ya'll keep carryin' on like this, an' someone's gonna get killed! Ah can't risk the lives in this town over this war. If ya'll wanna settle this dispute, then ya'll go sign up for the war like everyone else." His eyes went to the Northerners first, lingering on Mike and the boy, Abe. "If Ah catch any more word o' fuss outta ya'll, then ya'll can pack up and go back to Philadelphia." Next his attention went to Sam, and Mr. Connors. "If ya'll can' keep your tempers under control, then keep yourself outta my town. Either one o' ya'll fight any more, it better be on a battle ground, or ya can spend your time in the town jail—indefinitely."

With grumbles, the men began to separate, taking their different paths home. Sam went back to the drugstore to be scolded by Myrna, who had the children gathered around her, and Abe gathered with the rest of his friends, sporting a black eye as a prize.

Margie, the large and warm spirited woman who helped run the town hotel, and also helped slaves escape, gathered Ben out of the group and quickly pulled him inside, tutting and sighing over his appearance after the scrape. The African woman took care of any that came under her wing, and her attitude had earned her the nickname of "Aunt" which is what everyone but her husband,Mike, called her by.

"Lawd, if it ain' enough, all this fightin' and squawlin'…enough to drive a woman mad…you got yoursel' good, this time, Benny boy, make no mistake…gettin' in the middle of it like that and worryin' an ol' woman like myself…outta be ashamed…" She prattled on as she tended to the minor wounds Ben had gotten, just a scrape across the arm and a swollen lip. "An' top it all, mah Robbie ain' shown his face all mornin'…dunno where in Lawd's name that chil's got to…it's enough to give a woman a heartattack, I tell ya…it ain' righ'…"

Ben began to laugh. "Don't you worry abou' Robbie, Aunt. He's alright…saw him down by the creek earlier this morning. He's probably just a bit upset 'bout the crossing." The "crossing"—the time when Aunt, Mike, and their son Robbie had made it over to Philadelphia—had happened ages ago, long enough that most freed slaves had made their adjustments by now. It just wasn't that case for Robbie. Mike, who came in a little later, smoking a pipe, his face shrouded with the intensity of his thoughts, illuminated on what he caught of the conversation.

"Boy's been mopin' too long. 'Bout time someone talked to him…he's free, ain' he? Ain' no reason on God's good earth to be feelin' like he does!"

Aunt wagged a finger in his direction. "Now, you be easy on the boy, Mike. He had a hard crossin' and you know it. Leavin' behind all his friends like that, thinkin' of 'em back on that plantation, slavin' away when he don' have to…gotta leave the boy with a sense of guilt."

Mike frowned deeper and sighed. "We're workin' on gettin' everyone out, Margie…what more can we ask for bu' time?"

Ben stood, waving off Aunt's insistent buzzing and twittering about, worrying about the state of his arm. "I'll go talk to him, Mike, if ya wan' me to."

Mike nodded and set into a deeper set of thought. Ben started walking out the door just as he heard Aunt go off fussing at Mike for trying to join into the fight from before in the first place.

"Break my hear' to loose ya, Lawd knows it would, an' you go off tryin' to get yourself killed anyways! Why, the things a woman has to endure from her husban', I tell ya, it just too much! Wha' if one of those plantation folk hit ya with one of 'em rifles? Ya can' be doin'…"


	2. Deals In the Dark

Author's Note: Wow. I had ONE reviewer. I feel special. Sorry for the sarcasm, people, I guess nobody except for one wonderful reviewer was that interested. So I'll reply to her…him…I think it's a girl…please don't hurt me!

**_Alaura Fairfield:_** Yeah, the assignment in English was to put it in a modern setting, but I didn't want to put the story in the 21st century. My writing instincts didn't want me to, so somewhere during one of my insomnia spells someone in my head goes "hey, what about the Civil War?" My most hairbrained schemes become realities between the hours of 2 and 5 am.

* * *

Robbie stared at the waters of the creek, looking at his hazy reflection that wavered as the water ran swiftly and clearly over the smooth creek stones. He sighed and stood from where he had sat for what seemed like an eternity, lost in thought. A movement in the bracken behind him caused him to turn his head, looking for the source of the noise. Ben came through, whistling and carrying a basket of food, eyebrows shooting up as he looked at Robbie, apparently noticing him there for the first time.

"How's it goin', cuz?" Ben inquired lightheartedly as he flopped down on the shore and continued whistling the quick, good natured tune. Robbie sighed and turned his attention back to the waters, answering at length.

"It's goin'."

"Good or bad?"

"Too soon to tell." Robbie shrugged and took a different perch on a tree stump as Ben turned to examine him.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

Ben gave a knowing look, guessing the reason for Robbie's melancholy mood—the girl back home. "It's Rosie, ain' it?"

Robbie nodded and Ben just shook his head. "Gotta stop beatin' yourself up about that, man. Rosie's alrigh', an' we'll be gettin' her out eventually."

"I'm sick o' waitin'. Every minute's an eternity."

Ben just shrugged and went back to dipping his feet in the water lazily. He frowned at the water, trying to think of a way to take Robbie's mind off the girl from back home that he had loved so dearly. He jumped to his feet. "How bou' we meet the others an' go to Philly for a nigh'?"

"What's the use?"

"Migh' do ya some good."

Robbie sighed, knowing that his friend would never rest until he at least cheered up a little. He stood and brushed his trousers off, examing Ben for the first time really since they had been talking. "Wha' happened to ya lip?"

"Jus' a brawl. Nothin' big," Ben answered at length, not really meeting Robbie's eyes. He watched Robbie's eyes narrow as the African determined exactly what had happened.

"When will it all end!" Robbie threw his arms up in the air in exasperation and stormed off, leaving Ben to follow speechless behind. "Fightin', escapin', runnin', hidin', fightin' some more…I'm sick o' it, Ben! I can't take it anymore!"

"I know, cuz…" Ben said softly.

Robbie continued on, but his pace slowed eventually. His black eyes held a quiet anger and sadness. "There's gotta be a better way."

* * *

Peter took another drink from the whiskey Mr. Connors had provided. He surveyed the room lightly, his mind going in circles as he thought of the possibilities. If Connors agreed to his marriage proposal, and he married Joyce, then he would inherit Connors thousands of acres and many slaves…he'd be one of the most influential men in the state of Maryland, not even counting he was already the son of the Mayor of Harpies Springs. But small towns were no longer of much consequence. He wanted the bigger picture.

"Ah'd like to ask to court your daughter, sir, if it's alright with you."

Peter had noted that Connors hadn't taken a seat since Peter had been shown in. The older man's eyes seemed withdrawn with pondering every word his company said. Peter was many years older than Joyce—a twenty eight to her sixteen. Joyce had also never met Peter, or not to his knowledge, and this was America. He couldn't force his daughter to marry anyone.

"Ah dunno, Peter. You'd have to ask the girl…she migh' take a likin' to ya. She's a sensible enough girl." He continued to pace in front of the fireplace. "Ask her 'bout courtin', give it a few months, then ask about marryin' her." It would be well for the family for Joyce to marry Peter, considering his upbringing and background, but it all remained up to Joyce. "Talk to her tonigh', at the party…bring a few friends, if ya like, but tonigh' could be your chance."

Connors called one of the servant boys in the room, handing them a list and a packet of invitations. "Deliver these, boy." He motioned for Peter to follow and walked him to the door, noticing the almost hungry look in the young man's eyes.

"Ah wan' her to be sure of who she marries…be sure she love you." Connors said as he shook Peter's hand, having the creeping feeling that he had, in sense, just signed off his daughter to the highest bidder.

* * *

It was loud in the pub that afternoon, even in the backroom where the Yankees, escaped slaves, and slaves who were given leave were forced to gather. A slave was talking in an overly loud voice not far from Ben and Robbie, apparently asking for someone who could tell him what a piece of parchment in his hand said. Robbie watched as Ben took the list from the boy and began reading off names. They were all of upstanding citizens, rich plantation owners and townfolk.

"Where's this party held?" Ben questioned the slave as he finished, wondering what occasion there could possibly be for such a gathering.

"At the Connors, o' course. Rosie tol' me I had to hury if I didn' wan' a beatin' for bein' slow abou' it, so I can' stay to chat."

Robbie immediately lifted his head slightly as he heard Rosie's name. "Rosie?" His Rosie didn't work at the Connors. It had to be a different Rosie.

"Yeah, new worker…pretty girl, bu' sorta vain for a slave, if'n ya know what I mean." The servant boy turned to walk away, but Robbie stopped him.

"Ya got to ge' me into that party."

The servant boy raised his eyebrows. "How'm I supposed to do that?"

"I'll give ya the nigh' off. I'll pose as one of ya. I'll ge' three o' ya outta work tonigh'…" He knew he was speaking for his friends, one who wasn't even there, but he had to see if it was his Rosie. He had to know if she was there. "Me 'n Mark 'n Ben. We'll cover ya."

The boy gave a reluctant nod after a few moments, then leaned in closely to give them instructions on how to get in. "Alrigh', lissen."

* * *

Joyce winced as Nancy tightened her corset, preparing her for the party. Her mother was in the corner of the room, examining her dresses and throwing aside several of Joyce's favorites, wearing a face of disgust before finally coming to one of the ones she had picked out herself. Her mother had been prattling on forever. "There's a very fine gentlemen comin' to the party tonight. Peter, the Mayor's son? Very handsome, that 'un…"

"Lawd knows that the truth, Miss Connors…" Nancy turned back to Joyce, grinning slightly.

"And arrogant, to add to his list of qualities." Joyce said in an offhand way, though her face clearly spoke that she hated the boy. She had seen him with some of his friends, around town, picking on those weaker than him. He thought his father's position gave him right to run right over everyone.

Joyce's mother frowned heavily and tried another approach. "You'd be made a rich woman, marryin' someone like that."

"Lawd yes, chile, you'd have everythin' you'd ever wan'. All the clothes an' jewelry an' horses an' fine things—"

"Ah don't care about those things, an' you know that, Nancy." Joyce said, clearly trying to close the subject. As her breath was taken away from Nancy pulling on her corset more tightly, her mother took further advantage of the situation.

"Jus' talk to him tonigh' at the party, hon." Her mother swept out of the room before another word of protest could be worked in by the furious Joyce. She sighed as Nancy finished her corset, hating the tight fit of the thing, and threw aside the dress her mother had picked for her, picking one of her own favorite—a blue one with white linings and a tapered waist. She saw her Nancy, the servant that had taken care of her since she was a child, grin slightly and shake a falsely condescending finger.

"Ya'll be in trouble for wearin' what your mother don' approve of."

"My mother doesn't approve of me, Nancy, an' that's the truth o' it."

Nancy shook her head and began straightening out Joyce's belongings. "Ya ought not talk like that, chile. Not proper. Not proper a' all."

"Proper be damned." Joyce said angrily, and Nancy let out a small whistle and a grin.

"Jus' lissen to the girl! Cussin' already, an' we're tryin' to make a lady of her! Lawd help us!"

Joyce smiled a small smile and began putting on her dress. "Ah'm jus' gettin' tired of this life, Nancy. I'm gettin' real tired of it."


End file.
